


i wanna be your left hand (wo)man

by lavenderseaslug



Category: Major Crimes (TV)
Genre: F/F, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-26
Updated: 2015-01-26
Packaged: 2018-03-09 04:25:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3236153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lavenderseaslug/pseuds/lavenderseaslug
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times Sharon Raydor bonds with a member of her team.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i wanna be your left hand (wo)man

**i.**

They are drunk. That’s what they will tell themselves tomorrow. He’s married. She’s married. It doesn’t seem to matter now, not when she’s pressed up against the cold metal of the single stall in the men’s bathroom and her dress is hiked up around her thighs, his hand under her skirt.

The fluorescent light over the sink reflects on his bald scalp and Sharon thinks idly that she’s always wanted to run her fingers over the smooth surface. She thinks that this is the only time she’ll have the opportunity.

This wasn’t planned, this wasn’t expected. Sharon wonders if she’ll be able to come to this bar again without feeling a pang of shame. She’s never wanted to use a bad case as an excuse for misbehavior, but a spousal dispute that resulted in dead children hits close to home with the only two married members of Major Crimes.

Her marriage to Jack might be in name only, but she still carries the fear that someday, he’ll choose to retaliate in some way, and she won’t be ready. She’s grateful that her children are self-sufficient, grown enough to protect themselves from Jack, even if she can’t. She knows that Mike Tao has a happy marriage, but she also know that things can change on a dime, and sometimes even a happy marriage can disintegrate. She thinks Mike Tao must be feeling the futility of wanting to protect his family from things that can’t always be avoided. She assumes he’s thinking of his wife, of his son, even as his hands are making her moan in a dingy bar bathroom. They haven’t discussed much, or anything, really. There was a tacit understanding that this was difficult for them and that had been enough as they tossed back an unthinkable number of shots, each grimacing as the astringent alcohol slid down their throats.

The rest of the team had dwindled to just the two of them, locked in some kind of drinking contest neither one really wanted to win.

It wasn’t a question when he got up to go the bathroom, but she answered it anyway when she stood to follow him.

His eyebrows rose slightly when she entered behind him, but he didn’t say anything. Neither of them are particularly known for their emotional outbursts, holding their feelings at bay until they’re away from the team. Clinical might be the best description of their demeanors.

They both know this doesn’t mean anything; they both know it’s more about the fact that they are each present, that they share some level of appreciation for what the other one is going through. They each have spouses who can never really understand what a difficult case leaves behind, or the best way to go about repairing the wreckage. It isn’t about anything but losing themselves in this tenuous connection.

She is wrapped around him, with a leg leveraged against the toilet, the other locked against him, her heel pressing into the back of his calf, holding him to her. Not that he’s showing any inclination of moving away. He has a hand up her dress and a hand down her shirt, and nothing about this makes Sharon feel very dignified, but it’s been a while since she’s done this in a bathroom of a bar, and she thinks she can’t really complain.

It isn’t about anything, she thinks as her breath comes more quickly, her head falling back against the wall, eyes tilted towards the ceiling. Her hands go to his fly, pulling the zipper down with a practiced ease that should bring a blush to her face, but there’s no room for that feeling between them right now, no place for doubt.

He is hard in her hand, another thing anchoring her to this moment, this pointless exercise that may have consequences tomorrow. But she tells herself once more that it doesn’t mean anything, that they’re just drunk, and she lets her nails lightly drag against him, eliciting a low, guttural sound from him.

Their hands bring each other over the edge with an efficiency that Sharon knows she can expect from a member of her team. She buries his face in his neck to muffle the noise threatening to break from her mouth, forgetting for just a moment who she’s with and where she is. She can smell the comforting manliness of his cologne mixing with the acrid smell of the alcohol that’s roaring through them both. His hands are in her hair, the burnished red strands a magnet for idle fingers. She knows her hair must be flat, knows that when they leave the bathroom, there will be no doubt in anyone’s mind of what transpired. It’s lucky everyone they know in this bar has left already.

Her hip creaks unflatteringly as she eases herself to the floor and embarrassment threatens to creep up on her. Tao bends down to pull up his trousers and she reaches forward to touch his bald head, just a gentle caress that she hopes won’t be mistaken for anything more than what it is: curiosity.

“My wife says it makes me look distinguished,” he says as he buckles his belt, and just like that, he’s invited his spouse between them and Sharon feels the distance as she straightens her skirt.

“I would say she’s correct, Lieutenant,” Sharon agrees, but neither of them are looking at each other anymore.

“I think, at this point, you could call me Mike.” There it is. An olive branch to help them bridge the gap back to their normal selves, where control is paramount and logic reigns supreme.

She smiles at him, worries that it might come across as brittle; everyone seems to think she’s hard and icy and cold. “Have a good evening, Mike. Be sure to call a cab. Neither one of us should be driving.” He gives her a mock salute, and she knows they’ll be all right at work tomorrow. They exorcised their demons over this case, ready for a fresh start in the morning.

She gives her skirt one final tug, opens the stall door and lets herself glance in the mirror briefly, assuring herself that she looks as presentable as one might expect, and leaves her lieutenant behind, knowing she’ll see him at work in the morning, both of them prompt and on time.

 

**ii.**

She calms him, she knows. A hand on his arm, a tiny shake of her head and he finds it in himself to reel his anger back.

But now, with his mouth hot on hers, his hands fumbling with her bra, the last thing she wants is to calm him down. Maybe this is stress relief, they both need to shake off the tensions of the day, they both need some kind of physical connection.

Sharon doesn’t think her team knows how much she craves physical contact, how much she enjoys the feel of another person under her palm. She’s viewed as a wicked witch, an ice queen, even know that she’s been working with this team for a while now. Some reputations are hard to shake, she supposes.

Her bra is off, her skirt is off, and Julio is reveling in the view she presents to him, the appreciation evident in his eyes, and she feels a warming and welcome blush at the attention. The color spreads to her chest; his eyes widen and a slow smile spreads across his face.

He has always been her secret favorite. Perhaps not so secret, because she knows she lets him get away with far more than she should, and she thinks the rest of her team knows that too. But she thinks they all give Julio a pass on things, they all are willing to look the other way when necessary.

He looks up at her with a fire in his eyes and Sharon wishes that he could find this kind of outlet for his passion more often. She wishes she could offer this kind of support to him regularly, but it doesn’t seem like it would be entirely professional to drag him off to her office every time he got a little hot under the collar. As he lowers his mouth to her breast, leaving the imprint of his teeth on the soft flesh, she feels a thrill run through her at the idea of being marked, secretly. Tomorrow, he’ll know that she has a small purple bruise on her left breast and he’ll smile that small smile he reserves for her.

He is clumsy, unrefined in his passion, and Sharon isn’t sure she expected anything else. He feels so strongly that his brain takes time to catch up to what his body is doing.

Her fingers scrabble at his tie, loosening the knot, then methodically begin to unbutton his shirt, but before she’s even halfway through, his hands come up and rip his shirt open, peppering the floor with buttons.

“I’ll take him outside to let him cool down” led to the elevator, which led to Sharon pulling the emergency stop, a dangerous game in a police station, but she was feeling reckless when Julio’s wild eyes lingered too long on her mouth before flicking up to meet her eyes. Besides, she knows that the cameras in the elevator haven’t been replaced due to budget cuts, and they aren’t hooked up to monitors anymore. Buzz complains about it every day.

She’s trying to think of the explanation she can use for stopping the elevator, but Julio’s insistent mouth pulls her from her thoughts and forces her to focus on the man in front of her. This is his power: he can overwhelm the senses, he can fill every corner of one’s mind so there is nothing else to think of but him. She wonders how Rios missed that, how little concern she shows for Julio Sanchez.

She wore pants today, which makes everything more difficult, but she thinks Julio is viewing it as a challenge. He has a glint in his eye that would worry her, except she knows how protective he is of her. Even after they have sex in an elevator, he won’t do anything to tarnish her stellar reputation.

Their hands are on each other’s flies, his thick fingers almost delicate as they pull down the zipper, her small ones finding it hard to unbutton his pants, distracted as she is by his mouth, now on her neck.

Her trousers fall, and she steps out of them, her shoes still on, and she thinks Julio’s eyes are about to fall out his head as he takes in the expanse of her legs. With an eager awkwardness, he shoves his pants down, his boxers too, and lifts her, so easily, surprising a gasp out of her. Her hand slips between them, helping to guide herself down, sliding, so slowly. Julio grunts, meeting her with a thrust.

She closes her eyes, leaning her forehead against him, just feeling the movement between them. He is calming her, now. She hadn’t realized how much tension she was feeling until this moment, but she thinks maybe he did.

He stutters over the edge, looking at her with soft puppy eyes, before his hand slides into her, flicking, circling, pinching. She’s keyed up, ready to let it all go, and he lets her, one final push of his fingers and she bites into his shoulder to muffle the sound. He’ll be marked secretly too.

He sets her down carefully, her heels feeling suddenly very high. She steadies herself against the wall, letting the feeling ooze back into her limbs. She steps out of her shoes to pull her pants on, one leg at time, grateful they are black, showing only very little wrinkling. Julio hands her bra to her with a sheepish grin on his face, and she pulls that on too, noticing the bruise on her breast has already flowered. She smiles back.

Her shirt looks mussed, there’s no denying that. His shirt is missing buttons. They’ll have to think of something to tell everyone; she knows he has extra shirts in his desk for long nights, but there’s no way to get to his desk without everyone seeing the damage they’ve done to each other’s clothing.

“It took a long time to calm me down, ma’am. It’s a shame I was so angry I ripped my shirt,” Julio says, giving her a gift. His hand is on her arm, calming _her_ down.

“Thank you, Julio,” is her only reply, because they both know how appreciative she is, and she pushes the button to engage the elevator again. The bell dings, the doors slide open, and they are faced with the worried faces of their team.

“We needed a private place and this seemed the best choice,” she says in a tone that doesn’t invite questions, stepping past them. Julio follows, only offering that he ripped his shirt in his anger, and that he needs to get a fresh one from his drawer.

Her hand comes up unconsciously to caress the spot above her breast where she knows the evidence of their tryst is bright, and she hears Julio chuckle, knows he has caught her. She lets it slide because he has always been her favorite.

 

**iii.**

She feels the younger woman tense under her mouth, unsure of whether or not to reciprocate. Then, decision made, Detective Sykes relaxes. Sharon almost wants to laugh, this seems to be an unofficial initiation to Major Crimes under her tenure. Sykes proves to be as eager in this pursuit as she is in all other areas. The youthful exuberance in front of her makes Sharon feel her age, makes her wonder what will harden Amy Sykes, what will take away her naiveté.

The office is empty, Provenza leaving with parting words about how it was the Captain’s turn to babysit the new recruit. Amy rolled her eyes in response, but seemed perfectly content to spend more time alone with her new boss. Sharon had never particularly warmed to suck-ups, but Amy tries to please her boss without the layer of smarminess that usually accompanies aspiring teacher’s pets.

Sharon is struck by the fact that Amy Sykes is the first person to be truly on her side on this team. Sharon handpicked the woman before her, as much for her potential as a detective as her potential to annoy Provenza. She’s earned tolerance from the other members of Major Crimes, but Amy is in her pocket, a fact which annoys her only some of the time. It feels good to have someone in her corner.

Sharon isn’t exactly regretting her decision as Amy’s mouth moves from her lips to her jaw, to her neck, hands pulling at her blouse as Sharon’s hands fumble with the door lock and the blinds. Amy seems unwilling to give up any moment of contact with her boss, moving with Sharon, her presence as un-ignorable here as it is outside these walls.

_With her boss_. How did they get here, Sharon wonders. To go from sharing stories of when they first started out, Sharon’s memory stretching much further back than Amy’s, to making out. They’d ordered pizza to share; waiting for officers in a stakeout to return was definitely less preferable to actually being on a stakeout, but it did usually come with better food. Had she leaned too close when reaching for a soda? Had her hand brushed Amy’s as she handed the other woman napkins? Was her laugh too flirtatious? Was she sending signals that said, “Please take me against my door”?

Because that was the case, her shirt hanging at her elbows, her pale Irish skin even lighter in contrast to the darker head that was currently affixed to her chest. Sharon almost feels guilty for not reciprocating equally, but if she had to guess, Amy doesn’t seem to mind, gently nipping, sucking, biting, addling Sharon’s brain with her dogged determination to do this right.

Sharon had never particularly wanted to mentor anyone, had never felt the need to mold the young policemen and women of tomorrow, and yet she’s put herself in a position to fill just that role with the woman in front of her. This woman who has made quick work of her skirt, who is fingering the edge of Sharon’s lacy underwear with a questioning look on her face, as if she’s asking permission, as if she’s worried Sharon would say no.

Sharon’s almost tempted to offer a faux salute to let the detective know she can proceed. Sharon has never been known to say no to a willing supplicant on her knees. Her hand gently caresses Amy’s hair, endearingly mussed, strands frizzing out from her tight bun.

She grips the handle of her door as Amy lowers the lace, explores with hands and tongue. She bites her lip to keep the low groan from escaping, and wonders if she’ll feel the same way about her office after this. She supposes it was time to really christen it as hers, one way or another.

When she comes, it’s hard and fast and Sharon is grateful of the solidity of the door behind her, for Amy’s hand on her breast, the other at her waist. Her legs feel a little like jelly and she feels too old to be feeling this way.

“That’s one way to pass the time, eh boss?” Amy asks, rising quickly from her knees with a vigor that Sharon envies.

She doesn’t offer to return the favor as she pulls up her underwear and her now slightly-wrinkled skirt, and Amy doesn’t make any sort of demand. It was as if it she was simply fulfilling a request from her superior, no questions asked. Sharon idly wonders about possible sexual harassment complaints, but doesn’t think she has anything to worry about. The mutual, if unspoken, agreement to get the boss off while they wait for the other members of the team to come back didn’t come with any promised favors or secret promotions.

Sharon’s fluffing her hair and opens the blinds as Amy leaves the office and stations herself at her desk, only a small smirk belying the fact that anything other than casual conversation took place between them tonight.

Sharon leans against her doorframe, surveying the mostly empty room, the abandoned desk, tapping the screen of her phone impatiently. “Any word, Detective Sykes?” she asks, willing a phone call into existence, using rank to create distance.

“It’s Amy, ma’am. I never was a big one for rank in the office. And no word yet, but it looks like at least one car is heading back now,” she says, pointing at something on her computer that Sharon can’t see. “Must’ve been a quiet night.”

“Mmm. A quiet night.” Sharon backs into her office and sits at her desk, trying to find some paperwork to give the appearance of being busy when her team returns.

 

**iv.**

Morale is low on her team, a crankiness  that extends beyond Provenza permeates the air. She feels picked on, small, brittle, subject to a thousand little attacks from the people she sees every day. Attacks that would not have happened if they’d had a more successful month, if Taylor would let them do their jobs, if they felt happier.

She doesn’t know what she can do for them, but right now, she doesn’t even want to seem them. She knows what she can do for herself, and if means driving to the liquor store, picking out two bottles of chilled wine and driving over to Chief Johnson’s house.

Fritz answer the door, and Sharon feels stupid for not thinking that he could be home. He sees her face, can tell she’s not here for him, and lets her in without question. He yells for his wife, scooping up their cat, who makes an appearance to investigate Sharon’s shoes.

Brenda comes into view, dressed for bed, and it’s only then that Sharon realizes the time. Again, she feels foolish because she did all this without taking into account anyone else. At least Brenda wasn’t asleep, she supposes. At least she didn’t wake up the household.

Brenda gestures her into the kitchen and follows Sharon in, going immediately to the cupboard for glasses and Sharon puts one bottle of wine in the fridge. Brenda hands her a corkscrew and Sharon makes quick work of opening the bottle, handing it over to Brenda, who pours, generously filling each glass. It’s not the first time they’ve done this; it’s almost routine at this point. But it’s the first time it’s happened with Fritz in the house. Sharon wonders if it will change anything.

She settles, finally, stops moving for the first time since she got out of bed however many hours ago. She lets her brain rest as she sips at the cool liquid, the stress of the day settling around her shoulders like a dour mantle.

Brenda is unusually respectful of the silence, holding back any questions as she watches Sharon carefully.

Sharon isn’t sure how to start, but she knows Brenda is the one person who will understand, the one person who knows this team, even better than Sharon does, perhaps. She’s dealt with their moods, she’s dealt with Taylor, she’s dealt with being a woman in command. Sharon knows what a rare privilege it is to have someone like this to talk to after a day like this. She tries to use this precious resource sparingly, not wanting to ever overstay her welcome.

“Which one was it?” Brenda finally asks, unable to wait any longer. Her hand taps on the wineglass, alcohol untouched as Sharon’s is nearly empty.

Tears come unbidden to her eyes; she blinks them back as she tries to formulate a response. “All of them?” Her voice is thick with emotion, and her answer comes out as a question.

Before she can say anything else, she’s enveloped in Brenda’s small frame, feels the other woman’s lips in her hair, hears a muffled, “Oh honey.” And then Sharon feels the heaviness of the day, she feels the fact that she hasn’t washed herself in too long, she feels the grit and grime that seems to have seeped into her skin. Brenda’s flowery perfume fills her nostrils, the soft cotton of her pajamas rubs against her face, and Sharon feels soothed. This small gesture has made her feel more calm than anything else she’s tried so far.

And then Brenda loosens her hold with a laugh as she says, “You need a shower.” Sharon looks up sharply, braced for an insult, then remembers who she’s with and wonders if it’s an invitation. Brenda laughs again and grabs her hand, leading her to the bedroom. Sharon feels nervous, thinks Fritz is there, doesn’t know what he’ll say.

“He went out,” Brenda says before she opens the door. Sharon isn’t sure when he left, maybe as soon as she arrived. She wonders how much he knows about the nights she comes over to Brenda’s house (she never thinks of it as Fritz’s).

They undress each other unhurriedly, shirts pulled over heads, hands ghosting over each other’s limbs. Brenda turns the shower on and steam begins to fill the bathroom. Sharon knows she’ll smell like Brenda’s shampoo tomorrow and wonders if her team will notice.

Her hair is wet and heavy, her arms slick with soap and water. Brenda stands in front of her, mostly untouched by the spray, offering Sharon a loofah, lathered with soap. Sharon smiles and turns in response, her bare back exposed, and Brenda takes the hint, gently rubbing her, up and down, in soothing strokes.

Sharon thinks that being the head of Major Crimes must have been more lonely for Brenda, when she was in charge, no predecessor to turn to after tense and awful days. Maybe that’s what Fritz provided, when they first got together, a slightly impartial party, if nothing else. She remembers how Brenda seemed unfamiliar and unused to the idea of a work friend, and Sharon is glad that she was able to break through the walls Brenda had thrown up, proven herself to be worthy of being let into Brenda’s inner circle.

She thinks maybe Brenda never had days this bad because maybe she didn’t let the team get as close to her as Sharon is guilty of doing. Her face flushes slightly at the thought.

The shower is soothing against her back, Brenda’s hands a gentle touch, though surprisingly strong as they ease the muscles of her shoulders. Sharon feels Brenda’s mouth on her shoulder, and turns once more, pulling Brenda underneath the stream with her, and they are a tangle of long limbs, a quiet murmur of meaningless niceties.

Later, when Sharon wraps a towel around herself, she feels significantly better, even if they haven’t talked about anything.

She’s toweling her hair when Brenda opens the door, letting a rush of cold air in. Sharon sees  a body on the bed and stills, knowing Fritz has returned from wherever it is he went.

“She needed a shower, Fritzi. You know about those long days. And all the good stuff is in our bathroom.” Brenda says nothing about why her hair is wet too, and Fritz doesn’t ask. She returns with clean sweats, and Sharon pulls them on gratefully, enjoying the loose material.

She nods to Fritz as she leaves the bathroom, follows Brenda to the kitchen, her old clothes balled in her hand.

“You can keep the wine,” she says, picking up her purse and sliding her feet back into her shoes.

“Sure you don’t need to talk about anything?” Brenda asks, fixing Sharon with the stare that has made countless criminals confess, but Sharon just shakes her head, her still-damp hair making a damp patch on the back of her shirt.

“I’m good,” she says, making her way outside, and is surprised to find that it’s true. She’ll call Brenda tomorrow, make plans to see her when she’s calmer, when it won’t seem like she’s just using Brenda for sex.

Getting into her car, she waves at the other woman, silhouetted against the light inside her house. Turning her key in the ignition, Sharon feels ready to go home, ready to go back to work in the morning.

 

**v.**

He is comfortable, like a worn, well-loved shoe. He knows he can come over without calling, so long as Rusty is gone for the night. Sharon makes sure to work that fact into casual conversation, as good as an invitation as far as they’re concerned.

He brings food, as if she wouldn’t let him in without some sort of bribery. And she greets him with a smile, stepping aside for him, closing and locking the door, because he won’t be leaving any time soon.

They eat at the table, quiet conversation about children and grandchildren. Sharon asks what ballet the boys will be in next, but it’s a silly question because unless it’s the Nutcracker or Swan Lake, she knows Andy won’t remember the name.

They’re both just marking time so it doesn’t seem like he came over just to get into her pants, even though that’s always the end result of his visits.

When they’ve finished, he clears the table, knows how she likes the dishwasher loaded. She moves to the couch, content to let him do the work, a sign of trust between them. Shell let him do things in her kitchen unsupervised because she knows he’s learned the right way to do things.

He’s humming something, tunelessly and without thought, and Sharon appreciates the noise. Since sharing her home with Rusty, she has come to dislike being alone, sitting in silence. She thinks Andy has picked up on this, just one more reason he comes over when Rusty’s away.

He cares about her, more, she thinks, than she cares about him, and it worries her. Not that she’s callous or unfeeling, she’s simply worried he’s ascribed some greater meaning to all of this.

She likes companionship, likes the presence of another person. She likes sex, too, if she’s being honest. She thinks if someone was to look at her objectively, they might assume she was trying to make up for lost time after the years she was married to Jack.

For her, it’s another way to communicate, another way to show trust and support. She knows that about herself, but doesn’t know if Andy does.

She does like him, a great deal. There’s a reason he’s the one she’s invited over multiple times, that he’s the one who can putter around her kitchen without her nerves being frayed. She just isn’t looking to turn it into more than what they have right now.

She fields questions from Rusty about him and she’s sure Provenza grills him about her regularly. Their official, and true, answer is that they’re not dating, and Sharon never feels like she’s lying or covering something up because that isn’t how she defines their relationship. Technicalities and loopholes are one of the ways she makes it through the world when confronted with difficult questions and trying situations.

Andy finally joins her on the couch, settles his arm across her shoulders, completely at ease. He tugs gently at her and she lets herself sag against him, lets her lips find his. She can taste the Italian food they shared, and thinks maybe they should start brushing their teeth after dinner. But he pulls her from her thoughts as his tongue enters her mouth, sliding along hers.

He loves to lose his hands in the mass of her hair, loves to gently rub her neck at the base of her skull. She enjoys the feel of his stomach against her hand, finds his age reassuring. She has a rich fantasy life full of lithe women and men with flat stomachs, but when she’s with Andy, it’s not a dream she’s after, it’s reality. It’s the fact that he’s solid, reliable, dependable and _there_.

Having someone to count on is the thing she appreciates most about having Andy as a fixture in her life. He doesn’t surprise her with anything, and she finds comfort in that. Jack was full of gifts and weekend getaways, things that frittered their money away, things that he wouldn’t remember in a month. She’d had enough of that. She was satisfied with warm food and normal conversations, with easy domesticity.

His hands move under her shirt, flipping the clasp of her bra open. She lifts the hem of her shirt up and over her head, shrugs the undergarment off and begins to divest Andy of his shirt. Despite her yearning for simplicity, she does like it when they get this far on the couch; it makes the whole thing seem illicit. She thinks of Rusty, if he knew what happened on the sofa where he so loved to sit and spread out his homework.

Andy has slid them down so that they are horizontal on the couch, his legs between hers, his pants bunched at his knees, her skirt bunched at her waist. He notes her lack of underwear with a smirk; sometimes she forgoes them when he’s coming over, and she likes that little things like this are the only surprises he needs.

He pushes into her, moving in the slow rhythm she loves, taking his time, his hands flitting around her body as though it isn’t something he’s seen countless times before. He hefts her breasts in his palms, rubbing the nipples with his thumbs; he blows a raspberry against her neck because he likes it when she laughs while he’s inside her.

Sharon enjoys the weight of him on her, relishes the fact that they no longer have to teach each other the best way to make each other come. They know each other well, and it’s a relief. He kisses her full on the mouth as he comes, and he knows that she’s close behind, because he’s learned how to time it well. Another advantage of age is the experience that comes with it.

They lay together, unmoving, for a time, the only sounds in the apartment are their quiet breaths as they regain some sense of equilibrium. He moves first, waddling to the kitchen with his pants at his ankles and Sharon laughs, head against the arm of the sofa. There is a definite comfort here. He grabs a dish towel, wiping himself before throwing it at her. She catches it with one hand, surprising them both, and tends to herself before pulling her skirt down and grabbing her sweater from the floor.

She could invite him to spend the night; she knows he would stay. But her bedroom is still her own, and she doesn’t like to share it for too long. She walks past him as he straightens his clothes, kissing him lightly. He reaches for her, but she dances away from his grasp, and he knows it’s time to leave.

“Good night, Sharon,” he says, and she thinks she can hear regret in his voice. It would be easy to change her mind and ask him to come to bed with her, but Sharon Raydor isn’t known for taking the easy way in anything. She takes the leftovers from the fridge and presses them into his hands.

“Rusty’s gone tomorrow night, too,” she says, a peace offering, and his whole demeanor brightens as he unbolts the door and lets himself out.

Sharon sinks into the couch, digs between the cushions and unearths Andy’s tie. Stroking the silk gently, she smiles at the thought of the man who just left, then turns on the television and loses herself in the mindlessness of Friday night programming.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Fic title comes from "Riptide" by Vance Joy (but probably everyone should listen to Taylor Swift's cover of it, no shame)
> 
> Thanks and blame to Jess.


End file.
